I saw her staring at us while in the check-out line at Wal-Mart. I didn’t know her, but it was apparent that she knew us. Moments later, her declaration confirmed my suspicions.

“Glad you’re home. Welcome home!”

Jadon and I looked toward the sound of her voice as I said, “Oh, do you recognize my son?”

“No, Ma’am. I recognize your miracle.”

My heart was tenderly warmed by her pronouncement.

My miracle.

My Jadon.

It’s been happening a lot these days … strangers recognizing my miracle. We call Laurinburg home, and ever since our arrival here over a week ago, we’ve been stopped by folks wanting to speak a word, give a hug, meet my miracle. Somehow (and as only God could orchestrate it), they feel a part of the story, tightly connected to the ever-growing community who are surrounding and supporting Jadon’s healing.

Whether through prayers, through giving, through visits, through doctoring, or just as casual readers/observers of my Facebook posts, their involvement in Jadon’s fight have granted them access to the outcome. It’s also given them access to our hearts.

Within minutes of Jadon’s accident, I made the decision to have our need go public on Facebook. And while I’ve frequently had a love/hate relationship with social media, this time around, I’ve seen how God has used it for his kingdom gain and good. The fact that you’re reading my words in this moment is proof that you are (at some level) connected to our story. And this, folks, is a beautiful representation of what I have often called “sacred multiplication.”

In the economy of God, when we enter into God’s handiwork—when we see him at work and decide to put our hearts and hands to the plow alongside his—we plant seeds into the lives of others. The growth and influence are exponential, expanding at a rapid rate that exceeds singular gain. The rapidity and scope of influence is often so great, it’s incalculable.

That’s where we’re at, at a point of not being able to measure the length, breadth, width, and depth of this far-reaching miracle. It has touched many lives, and I believe that this is what God had in mind all along. God’s miracles are eternally impactful, intended to point the world to him.

Mission accomplished. Mission accomplishing.

This beautiful sorrow we’ve carried continues to point the world to Jesus, reminding those with eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts to receive that God has not left us. Instead, he is in our midst, making himself known to us, and drawing us all into a deeper, more intimate relationship with him.

Not long from now, in just a moment or two more, our faith will become sight and we will meet our Miracle-Maker face to face. But until then, there is a beauty being scripted into this world by the very hand and heart of God that should remind us all of just how close he really is to us, of just how much he wants to be with us, to do for us … to love us. Accordingly, I want to live my life with eyes wide-open, expecting to see more of the Father, to be and to do and to love more with the Father. God is not exclusive in his dispensation of miracles, friends. Through Jadon, I have come to realize that his generosity as it pertains to the miraculous far exceeds my expectations therein.

Humbly and with deep reverence, I make the confession that I can no longer underestimate God.

These past seven weeks serve as a witness and testimony to the Father’s inestimable love for me. My entire life, I’ve read about and committed to memory many of the miracles recorded in Scripture. But on this day, some 2000+ years beyond their unfolding, God has given me one of my own to hold.

This is my parting of the Red Sea. This is my feeding of the 5000. This is my “Lazarus, come forth.”

This is my really big God showing up on the scene of my itty-bitty life in a really big way.

So, by all means, go ahead. Recognize my miracle. Call him by name and welcome him home. Jadon’s story belongs to you even as it belongs to me. God has beautifully written you into this chapter of our lives and the ink is still wet. There is more to come. With God, there is always more to come.

Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. (Hebrews 11:1)

Last Friday, September 21st, our son found his words again. It all started with sign that read, “Say hi.”

He did … said “Hi.”

We were overjoyed to hear his voice, albeit groggy and weak. He read the sign; he followed the prompt. Jadon is coming back to us, piece by piece.

Not long after his initial proclamation, he made others. Simple things—his name, year, birth date. And then he made an unexpected proclamation, one I’ve never heard him say before. When the therapist asked him what my name was, what we expected to hear was “Mom” or “Elaine”. What he said, instead, was …

“Faith.”

In the nearly eighteen years of his earthly tenure, I’ve never heard my son refer to me as Faith. It is, indeed, my first name, but I’ve always been called by my middle name, Elaine. And therein lies the rub. I’ve written about it before … the struggle between my Faith and my Elaine.You can read about it here.

As life goes, the struggle continues.

Will it be life lived according to my Faith or according to my Elaine?

Time will write the witness. For now, the balancing act continues.

And even though my son may not have intentionally called me by my first name just over a week ago (for the record, he’s not called me that since), God seems to be using Jadon to remind me of something I often forget:

A certain faith is often forged in uncertain times.

We are there, friends, in an uncertain season … again. Eight years ago, we were battling through the uncertainty of my cancer diagnosis.Naively, I think we all assumed that this would be our family’s primary “suffering issue.” Every family gets one, right? – maybe two or three or ten. And while my cancer journey was, indeed, a sorrowful season for all of us, it now seems like a small thing compared to this very big thing.

Jadon’s gift bag from the Ronald McDonald house…

We know it. Jadon knows it. Apparently, you know it as well because we’re hearing from you. Yes, it seems as if all of us are #joiningjadonsfightfor a whole lot of reasons via a myriad of routes therein. My faith, your faith, our faith is being hammered out and shaped in ways we never imagined prior to Jadon’s “bending low to lift up.”

And in this moment, I am bending low beneath the weight of this limb to pick up my Faith before I pick up my Elaine. It’s heavy. It’s messy. It’s raw. It’s clumsy. It’s graceless. It’s grace-filled. It’s less textbook and more “on the job” training. Honestly, it’s probably the most unsophisticated Faith on this planet.

But it is mine, and it is growing.

So thank you, Jadon, for calling me out by a name for which I am lesser known. Perhaps in those quiet days before you found your words, God was giving you some of his.

By Faith I am listening. By Faith I’ll walk this road with you. Along the way and as we go, may God grant us his strength, his wisdom, his joy, his love, and (as always) his …

Peace for the journey,

September 27, 2018 (the night before Jadon’s 2nd surgery)

Follow Jadon’s Fight on my facebook page. In addition, Scotland Christian Academy (Jadon’s school) are selling #joinjadonsfight t-shirts. If you’d like one, follow this link. Lastly, we are blessed by the continuing financial support we’re receiving. If you’re so inclined, you can follow this link to do so.

“Fight the good fight for the true faith. Hold tightly to the eternal life to which God has called you, which you have declared so well before many witnesses.”-1 Timothy 6:11

He lies here, stretched out and so very vulnerable, like when he arrived in this world. His chest is broad, his head is shaved, and in true Jadon fashion, his legs are crossed in just the way he likes to sleep.

Gladiator. That’s what comes to mind.

He is beautiful. He’s my boy, #3 falling in behind his two older brothers and just ahead of his sister.

I can’t believe we are here. My unbelief is trumped by the reality—the gravity of this moment.

We are here, six days out from the most horrific day of my life. I don’t like revisiting that moment. There will be time for that in coming days. For now, I want to focus on this one moment, the one reality that struck me profoundly at 2:00 AM this morning and has stayed with me ever since.

Jadon’s fight is so much bigger than a hashtag or a Go Fund Me account.

Jadon’s fight isn’t just about him, although he has every right to call it all his own.

Jadon’s fight isn’t just so his parents or his brothers or his sisters are able to watch him play ball, graduate, go to college, marry, and have children.

You see, if you know Jadon personally, you get this. He loves life. He loves people. He’s never met a stranger. He steps up to the plate when called upon. Of his own accord, he mentors young boys. He carries groceries to cars on food bank days. He ushers at church. He volunteers (he would joke “voluntold”) with Special Olympics, VBSes, and the Appalachian Service Project. He buys veterans meals when they come into Zaxby’s and is ready with a quarter when you need an extra sauce and don’t have any change. He has a verse ready when your spirit is downcast and a smile when yours is upside down. He’ll give you a ride; he’ll give you his shirt. He’ll find a way to work around a problem by creating a new solution (Have you seen his hillbilly bench press?). He helps his mom and never complains. Never.

He has a servant’s heart because he serves the Father’s heart.

And serving, friends, is what landed him smack dab in the middle of this very blessed mess.

Upon Jadon’s insistence, he and his father left the safety of his car to remove a tree branch that had fallen across the road so that others could safely, more easily move down a neighborhood street. And just like that, in a moment of serving—of bending low to lift up—Jadon was struck by a bigger tree branch that put him on his face. It has put us all on our faces, the very place where Jadon would want us to be …

Talking to God.

Thus far, it appears to me, mission accomplished. Thousands of us have joined in holy dialogue with the Almighty, all on behalf of Jadon. History is writing the story, and because my son’s words are currently buried somewhere deep within his gladiator soul, God has called me to serve as Jadon’s mouthpiece.

Since his birth, Jadon has been declaring his faith so very well before many witnesses. You are sharing your Jadon stories with us, and I am not surprised by any of them. I just rarely hear of them. Jadon’s humility often keeps me from knowing just how widely and deeply he’s sown God’s love into the soil of humanity. The harvest is coming to pass, friends, and the fruit we’re taking hold of (the witness of a young man whose name means “God has heard”) is ripening before our very eyes.

What a sight to behold! A good fruit in a good fight.

“Good?” you might ask. Yes. Good. Why? Because Jadon’s fight is not just a fight to live again personally. Instead, Jadon’s fight is an invitation for you and me to join him on the front lines of faith and to live eternally.

And that, friends, is exactly what makes all of this good.

So, if you’re inclined, would you join us on the battlefield? Would you be willing to step up and step into the glorious harvest of faith that awaits you? Jadon would want you there, alongside him, contending for the “bigger” that is beyond what we can currently see. Jadon wants you with him now. Jadon wants you with him next. Jadon wants you with him forever.

Jadon wants you with God.

I do too. So consider this your invitation to join us on this sacred road of suffering. Grab our hands, grab a tissue, grab a moment, and grab whatever fragments of faith you have. Let’s take hold of the eternal life to which we’ve been called. Together, with Jadon leading the charge, we can sow and grow an abundant harvest that will last forever! As always and forever…

Peace for the journey,

If you’d like to follow Jadon’s progress please visit my fb page. All posts pertaining to Jadon will be made public. If you’d like to read a nice article about Jadon’s story published by the Laurinburg Exchange, click here. In addition, Jadon’s has been featured on the local Charlotte NBC station. You can view it by clicking here. Along the way and as we go, there will be many ways you can help us. We’re not shy about asking. We need help at so many levels. If you would like to join Jadon’s fight in a financial way, please click here. Every dollar raised will go specifically toward paying for the financial cost of getting our boy well. We are eternally grateful! Please feel free to share the link to this post but keep in mind that all rights are reserved by me. If you’d like to use a quote, please seek my permission first. Thank you!

Tears fell from her eyes as she imparted a final hope regarding a relational struggle she’s been dealing with for the past six months. Tears fell from my eyes as well. As a mother, my greatest personal pains have always been attached to the pains of my children’s hearts. Whatever they’re carrying, I tend to carry as well.

It would be easier if I could divorce myself from the struggle, but that’s not the deal. Parenting doesn’t come with pause buttons or expiration dates. Twenty-nine years ago, I didn’t understand the magnitude of what parenting love would encompass, but I did understand at least one thing going in:

I would do everything within my power to keep my children safe.

Safe. Protected. No harm done. Minimal exposure to danger or risk.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that, as it pertains to their safety, my ability to control it was limited.Fevers. Scraped knees. Upset tummies. Playground taunts. Broken bones. Broken relationships. Outside intrusions of all manners and manipulations. No, I wasn’t going to be able to prevent them all. Multiplied times four and, well let’s just say, my kids’ strife has earned for me my parenting stripes.

Even today, I still want to keep them safe, but after years of not being able to manage it perfectly, I understand something further, something deeper as it pertains to this shaping, parental love:

A mother’s safety can sometimes be restrictive to the neglect of being instructive.

When my well-meaning desire to make their pain go away prohibits their pain from being a way to mature them, then I have limited (and underestimated) the power of the tender moment.

It’s not that I wish pain on them as some warped way of growing them. Never. Oh that our heart-shaping would come to us more through our laughter than through our tears! But I’ve lived long enough, cried hard enough, trod deep enough through my own personal sorrows to believe that they have, in fact, made me wiser and, more importantly, moved me closer to the heart of God.

When I can’t understand the why, I can run to the Who. And it’s there, in that sacred space of aching exploration, where I receive an understanding that cannot be found in a textbook and a rich comfort that cannot be bought from a shelf.

I find Jesus, a Savior who does not retreat from my pain but a Friend who enters into it. Who waits with me. Who stays with me. Who walks with me. Who mentors me.

Jesus comes to my pain, and to the pain of my children, and, if allowed, shapes a kingdom heart—a heart likened unto his own. A heart that lives through the pain so as to rise as a witness because of it.

I don’t know what lies ahead for my daughter as it pertains to her current heart struggle, but I do know that hope lives in her—a hope not anchored in false realities but, rather, a hope tethered to the truth of Jesus Christ. And for that alone (at least this time), I am willing to loosen my grip on the safety net I’ve been holding beneath her so that she might fall into firmer hands…

A God that will not let her go. A Father who will keep her safe and who will grow her into a bastion of strength, grace, and eternal nobility.

It’s a terrible sting, a wounding not easily salved. Betrayal cuts more profoundly than disappointment because betrayal is rooted in motive. Betrayal is planned deception. Betrayal is attached to the heart. Whereas I am often disappointed by someone’s actions towards me, I am grief-stricken when I am betrayed by someone I trusted, someone I thought was my friend.

And so it is. Almost.

Accordingly, this morning (as a result of the better part of a night), I’ve thought a lot about the betrayal Jesus experienced. It’s easy to find in Scripture. At so many levels and at many points along his earthly tenure, Jesus experienced betrayal from those who surrounded him, but none more so than that from his disciple, Judas.

Jesus’ responses to his betrayer are staggering and are a comforting guide for those of us who are struggling to move beyond the pain of deception’s dagger. Ponder with me Christ’s reactions to his betrayer:

Jesus reached for his feet.

“… so he got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist. After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him.” (John 13:4-5 NIV)

During that last meal around the table with his closest friends, Jesus did something unexpected. He took off his outer garment, knelt low to the ground, and washed his disciples’ feet. All of them. Surely, his servant-posture brought some level of grief to both Judas and Jesus; the painful exchange grips my heart even now. Jesus touched and tenderly cleansed the feet of the one who would soon betray him – a final gesture of kinship between the betrayer and the Betrayed.

Final gestures of kinship are often present in our personal betrayals. The foot washing—the kneeling and the reaching—is way of extending a loving good-bye in the face of deep disloyalty. It serves a purpose for both parties involved. Never underestimate the worthiness of a gentle foot-washing. Washing and being washed roots deeply into the heart of humanity.

Wash feet. Live on.

Jesus released him to the night.

“As soon as Judas took the bread, Satan entered into him. ‘What you are about to do, do quickly,’ Jesus told him …” (John 13:27, NIV).

Jesus could have stopped Judas from running away into the night. Instead, Jesus released him to the night’s reckless wandering. Jesus gave Judas permission to “leave the table.”

Not everyone wants to stay at the table, friends. There are times in our lives when we, too, need to release our betrayers to the night’s reckless abandon. In keeping them at the table, in a place where they have long-planned to leave, we delay the painful outcome. Scratching at an oozing wound simply prolongs the healing.

Let go. Live on.

Jesus received his kiss.

“Now the betrayer had arranged a signal with them: ‘The one I kiss is the man; arrest him.’ Going at once to Jesus, Judas said, ‘Greetings, Rabbi!’ and kissed him. Jesus replied, ‘Friend, do what you came for.’” (Matthew 26:48-50)

Do what you came for. The Betrayed looked at the betrayer and, once again, gave his consent (perhaps even the push he needed) to seal the deal. No longer would the betrayal be kept secret; instead, a signal was given to all present that, in fact, the trust that had once existed between Jesus and Judas, had been forever broken. The end was near; the cross was close. Soon, within a day’s time, it would “be finished.”

There comes a “finishing time” (praise God!) to all the betrayals we’ll know, a moment when the acceleration of the end is clearly seen and evident to all. In receiving the kiss from our betrayers, we can know that the end of it is near. It’s not that we don’t from time to time, feel the sting of that moment all over again, it simply and profoundly means that we are no longer strangled by it … pinned down and defeated because of it. All betrayals lose their grip on us when the cross is finally high and lifted up for the entire world to see.

The betrayer’s kiss cues the cross’s arrival.

Hang on. Jesus did. And because he did, we can live on.

And now, this…

If today you are in a season of betrayal, if you or someone you love has felt the sting of deception from someone you forever trusted, then I encourage you to lean into your Savior’s story. He has so much to share with you, so many ways he wants to love you through your pain. I can’t help but think that one of the many reasons Jesus was able to reach, release, and receive his betrayal was because he knew that, somewhere down the road, you would need the witness of his story—his strength, his pain, his hope. If that’s you, then by the very good and tender grace of God, know this—

Betrayal is not the end of your story. Jesus is. And He will never, not ever, betray the love that he has for you.

As always, and most tenderly in this season of pain, peace for the journey,